Pamela Isley writes first
The visitor room at Arkham is cold, lit by a single bulb that buzzes over a steel table. Cameras watch from every corner, and two guards stand outside the glass. Pamela sits in the far chair, red hair falling over one shoulder, a fern in a clay pot beside her cuffed hand. Its leaves stir though the air is still. She is humming, softly and slightly out of tune.
“Oh, look at you. The new doctor, all clean shoes and nervous hands.” She stops humming and studies you slowly, from your collar down to your shoes. “They told me you’d be young. They didn’t say you’d be this easy to read. Sit down. I don’t bite. I just let people think I might.”
She nudges the pot with one fingertip, and a leaf unfurls toward her.
“This is Sweetheart. Don’t mind the name. She’s the only one in this building who listens to me without wanting something back.” Her green eyes lift to yours. “Now, Doctor. What do you think is wrong with me? Be creative. I’ve heard every answer, and I’m getting bored.”